Lost and Regained
by Harukami
Summary: Crowley finds an old book SURE to scandalize Aziraphale, and then has the tables turned on himself. Evil Answering Machine Warning, and some boy-love. If you can consider them 'boys' rather than occult (Or etherial) beings...


Lost and Regained - by Harukami  
  
Crowley burst into the bookstore, waving a small cloth-bound book smugly. /Nothing/ could ruffle Aziraphale's feathers quite as much as this, he was sure. Draw him and repel him. /I'm BAD/, he thought, pleased with himself.  
  
Aziraphale had barely had time to look up before Crowley slammed the book down. "Here you go, Aziraphale," the demon hissed. "A book you haven't--"  
  
"Oh, I have it," Aziraphale said mildly.  
  
"Not this version, you don't," Crowley said, smugness seeping through.  
  
Looking more interested, Aziraphale opened the cloth-bound book to read the publisher's information and his face fell again. "I'm sorry, dear boy. I'm afraid I do."  
  
"Are you sure?" Crowley pressed, suddenly anxious.   
  
"Quite," Aziraphale murmured. "I've read it, you see."  
  
Now /that/ was just laughable. "You can't have," Crowley persisted, sunglasses slipping down as he started to sweat. "Or you wouldn't be so calm, see? Because this is the edition Milton wrote with, you know, the sexual affair between God and Satan, right?"  
  
"Oh!" Aziraphale said delighteldy. "So you've read it too! I'd been starting to wonder if you had any literary exposure at all! Yes, I prefer this edition. I had Milton sign my version, you know."  
  
Crowley stared, unblinking. "But..." he began, and stopped. "The extra chapter..." he tried again, only to be interrupted by Aziraphale.  
  
"Rather hot, isn't it?"  
  
He was certain now that he was hearing things. "I...what?"  
  
"Hot," Aziraphale said, then blushed, expression a little embarrassed. "Well, /I/ think it's hot. I'm willing to admit that everyone has different tastes, though, and--"  
  
Crowley waved his hands. "Hang on! Woah! Hold it!" he protested, eyes flashing. "You don't even have a sex drive!"  
  
"I do too!" Aziraphale said, sounding offended, then hesitated and added, "Well, my views on the sex acts are a bit like my views on drink, really, it's all about situation and company..."  
  
The demon gaped at him. This was NOT going according to plan. "You only drink with me, though," he said eventually.  
  
A nearly imperceptible pause, except that Crowley percepted it. "Yes," Aziraphale said.  
  
And suddenly, Crowley was mad. Not just mad, he was very mad. Inexplicably so. A number of responses flashed through his head -- from slapping, a bit much, to a statement along the lines of 'So why didn't I get an end-of-world fuck, then?'. Eventually, he decided on "Angel?"  
  
Aziraphale was wringing his hands nervously. "Yes?"  
  
"Fuck you," Crowley said, and stormed out of the shop, not quite managing to slam the door before Aziraphale's startled 'Um...'  
  
It wasn't a very slammable door. It jingled.  
  
***  
  
Crowley spent the next week engaged in pointless, distracting activity. It involved seven traffic accidents, twelve nightclubs, a rather pleasant Irish pub, leather, four prosititutes, Microsoft, and a couple of released zoo animals. It wasn't helping much, and at the end of the week, he was finding himself insufficienctly distracted. He flopped back on his bed and stared at the relentlessly blinking new answering machine. The answering machine also functioned as a day-timer, alarm clock, and on a good day, a burgular alarm. It was black and shiny and smooth and claimed that there were twelve messages waiting.  
  
Absently, he reached out and pushed a button.  
  
/"Crowley? This is Aziraphale... Are you there? I'm pretty sure you're there, so..."/  
  
Beep. The machine was a work of genius. It only allowed for eight seconds of message.  
  
/"Uhm, I suppose I'm sorry, though, you know, I'm not sure what I did--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"I'm just not sure what I did that upset you so much, Crowley, because--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"Look, are you jealous? It's not as if it's often that I...oh, bugger..."/  
  
Beep. Crowley turned the machine off with a wave of his hand, scowling. He was /mad/, damn it. And it was all Aziraphale's fault.  
  
Why, he wasn't sure. But lust was /his/ realm. To know that Aziraphale could go off and fuck--  
  
His chest hurt. Bad. He wasn't angry enough. He turned the answering machine back on so he could listen to Aziraphale apologize and get angrier again.  
  
/"I mean, I don't have a thing about sex acts in general, in other people it's--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"Will you please stop hanging up on me, Crowley?! This is important, and--"/  
  
Beep. Crowley had to smile, and that wasn't helping him get angry. Aziraphale had never got the hang of answering machines.  
  
/"Oh, bugger it! What I'm trying to say is that I haven't, you know, DONE sex acts--"/  
  
Beep. Crowley sat up.  
  
/"I haven't, you know! I'm not sure why it'd upset you, but I wouldn't--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"Not without love. Honestly, Crowley, what kind of angel do you think I--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"And before now, with anyone else, there was no love, so of course I--/"  
  
Beep.  
  
/"Please Crowley! Do you understand what I'm saying?! Say something! I won't call agai--"/  
  
Beep.  
  
/"Mr. Crolwey? This is Computer Elektronics. Your latest model is--"/  
  
Crowley turned the answering machine off and just lay there for a moment. Had Aziraphale just... had he really--  
  
He wasn't sure how he felt about that, really. Thinking about it too much was making his head hurt. Desperate, suddenly, for distraction, he grabbed Paradise Lost from where he'd thrown it and began to read the 'extra' chapter.  
  
...Hot, for sure, and that WAS pretty amazing when he considered that it was an attempt to describe heavenly sex in verse. Yes, it was hot. He could imagine Aziraphale sitting and reading, wide-eyed, breath coming faster--  
  
And THAT was even hotter, really, and for now, that was really all he needed to know, wasn't it? Words that staruted with 'L' that weren't 'lust' or, or, or 'lithograph'...well, he could think of words like that some other time.  
  
Decided, he picked up the phone, which dialed itself.  
  
Aziraphale's rather lacklustre voice answered. "Vaguely Books, how can I help you?"  
  
"Hey, Aziraphale," Crowley said softly.  
  
The voice perked up, still strained, suddenly desperately cheerful. "Crowley! Thank goodness you called! I was beginning to think that, well, that you were mad at me."  
  
Crowley smiled. "Want to come over? I've got vodka," he hissed. He did, too. As well as every other form of alcohol he could find. Even if it hadn't been in his liquour cabinet before he phoned, it was there now.  
  
Aziraphale sounded almost silly with relief. "I think that would be a wonderful idea," he said, and admitted, "I could really use a drink."  
  
"See you in a few," Crowley said and hung up. He rose, glanced at the crumpled black silk sheets. Quickly, he made the bed, smoothing the silk until it lay flat and inviting. He wanted everything to be perfect.  
  
He could think about that later. 


End file.
